


Shell Yeah

by cloverpaloma



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beach, Ice Cream Parlors, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, and is also good at making shell necklaces, needs an air conditioner, needs to put on a shirt, surfer grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverpaloma/pseuds/cloverpaloma
Summary: “You need some sunblock?” the guy asks.  “You look a little pink.”He needs to melt into the floor, like, now.  “I’m good.”He might have just squeaked?(Enjolras is a broke college student working at a little ice cream shop on the beach, and he would really love it if surfer Grantaire would put a shirt on before coming in every day.)
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 93





	Shell Yeah

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it is December. Whoops.
> 
> Title from approximately 18 beach-themed Pinterest boards.

Enjolras is miserable. There’s no getting around it. 

It’s ninety-four degrees, he’s sweating through his t-shirt, and his hands are sticky from more flavors of ice cream than he knew existed. The tiny area behind the counter is only slightly cooler than outside, but much more humid. The ice cream shop he’s working at over the summer doesn’t have air conditioning in the main part of the store; the owner, Thenardier, had said something vague about the electricity bill, and only being able to afford to cool the ice cream freezer in the back. He and Eponine, his coworker and Thenardier’s daughter, switch off who gets to take a break in the freezer, and right now it’s Eponine’s turn. So, Enjolras is miserable.

He’s just placed his forehead against the stone counter, desperate for any escape from the stifling heat, when the bell above the door opens. Wonderful. It’s probably the annoying middle schoolers who come in every half hour or so to get “free samples.” Enjolras groans quietly as he raises his head, wiping sweat off his forehead, and freezes.

The guy walking in is most definitely not a middle schooler, and to be totally honest Enjolras would probably give him free samples for the rest of his life if he asked. He’s got curly black hair, a blinding smile that he’s shooting at the woman he’s walking in with, and tanned skin.

So much tanned skin.

There’s a sign on the door that says “no shirt, no shoes, no service,” but the guy obviously can’t read because he’s only wearing swim trunks and sandals. Enjolras cannot deal with this.

The woman steps up to the counter first, giving Enjolras a bright smile and flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Hi,” she says, so cheerful and unbothered by the heat that Enjolras wants to cry.

“Hi,” he responds, very carefully avoiding looking at the man standing behind her, “what can I get you?”

She takes a second to look at the board, and Enjolras tries not to fidget with his striped uniform shirt. Finally, he gives in and lets his eyes drift to the guy. 

He’s already looking at Enjolras, and his smile grows when their eyes meet.

Enjolras snaps his eyes back to the woman.

“I’ll have the strawberry cheesecake, please,” she says. She darts a quick look over her shoulder, towards the guy, and Enjolras leans down to focus very hard on the order sheet.

“Small, medium, or large?”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make him look up, and he catches the woman just glancing back at him.

“Small, please.” Her smile is much wider than before.

He accepts her money and gives her change, and doesn’t look at the guy again as he turns, grabs a small cup, and opens the door to the ice cream freezer.

There’s a quiet cough behind him. The woman looks apologetic as she asks, “Do you have cones?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “The electricity for the waffle maker was too expensive, I think.” Damn Thenardier. 

He ducks into the freezer and takes a long second to just lean, almost folded in half at how nice the cold air feels. Eponine is smirking at him from where she sits on top of the ice cream cooler.

“Small strawberry cheesecake,” he grumbles, holding out the cup.

She rolls her eyes but hops down to scoop it. “Still mcfucking hot out there?”

He’s still getting used to Eponine’s unique ways of expression, but it’s a testament to how far he’s come that he doesn’t even blink at the words.

“Hotter,” he says, and, just to be contrary, steps back out of the door. Now Eponine will have to come out too, and he can make her man the counter.

He turns around and gives the girl a small smile. “Your order will be right out.”

Then he turns to the guy. Swallows. 

“What can I get you?”

The guy is still smiling, just as oblivious to the heat as the woman. “Hi.”

Enjolras feels a sliver of annoyance growing in him. The guy walks in without a shirt, a direct violation of the rules, and is now making Enjolras stay in the heat longer. Enjolras doesn’t care how good he looks without a shirt, he’s supposed to be wearing one.

“Hi.” He frowns. “You’re supposed to have a shirt on in here.”

The guy blinks, obviously thrown, and then pulls out another grin.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding very, and reaches up high to stretch. The muscles in his arms and chest flex and Enjolras feels his already warm face heating up even more.

“You need some sunblock?” the guy asks, and god, even his voice is beautiful. “I don’t know how much they let you go outside, but you look a little pink.”

He needs to melt into the floor, like, now. “I’m good.” 

He might have just squeaked?

The guy just nods, and then looks up at the board above his head with all the flavors.

“Small rum raisin,” he decides. He smiles at Enjolras again as he hands over exact change.

Eponine pops out of the freezer as he writes the order down, grumbling under her breath about Enjolras and his various deficiencies, and slides the cup across the counter. She’s about to retreat to the safety of the cooler when the first woman speaks up.

“Do you have a spoon?” she asks, eyes very focused on Eponine. 

Eponine looks over at her, instinctively ready to fire out something sarcastic, and freezes. Her eyes go comically wide, the effect emphasized by her dark eyeshadow. Enjolras isn’t great at picking up cues, but even he can tell that Eponine is having the exact same reaction he did just minutes earlier.

He sticks a spoon in the strawberry cheesecake ice cream and coughs politely. Eponine breaks eye contact first, snatches the order sheet and a small cup, and slams back into the freezer. The woman takes her ice cream carefully, looking a little dazed, and pats Mr. I’m Too Good to Wear a Shirt. 

“Meet you out there,” she says, and then legitimately floats out of the store.

The guy turns back to Enjolras. “I think my friend likes your friend,” he says, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile.

“I think so,” Enjolras says, fighting down a smile of his own.

The guy holds out a hand. “Grantaire.”

Oh no. Enjolras’ hands could rival the stickiness of his four-year-old little sister’s after a jelly sandwich, he can’t just shake his hand.

The moment of hesitation is just a beat too long to be comfortable before Enjolras is scrambling to grab the rag on the counter to wipe his hands.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, words rushing out of him faster than he can stop them. “I have, you know, hands, sticky, ice cream…”

The guy, Grantaire, looks more amused than annoyed, which Enjolras is desperately confused by. He’s usually so much better with words, can make people sit up and listen with just a sentence. His parents had taught him very early that no one would listen to him unless he spoke eloquently, and he had needed to learn quickly to get their attention. He worries about his little sister, sometimes; she’s much quieter than him, and he’s afraid that his parents won’t pay her any of their hard-fought attention. That this Grantaire would still be talking to him after his stumbling is confusing.

He blinks back to the moment as Grantaire’s arm starts to drop, and he reaches for it before all the ice cream has been cleaned off. “Enjolras.”

Grantaire’s hand is large and rough, and it makes Enjolras blush again. At this point, he’s hoping that Grantaire thinks he has a temperamental sunburn.

“Nice to meet you, Enjolras,” he says, strengthening the grip on the handshake before letting go. 

“You, too.”

Enjolras knows Grantaire is waiting for him to say something else. If this were his international relations discussion group, he would have about three answers, all intelligent and well-sourced, ready to fire off. As it stands now, though, the only thought he can pull from the swirling embarrassment and growing attraction that his head’s become is, “Do you want whipped cream?”

Grantaire laughs, sounding genuinely surprised. “Yes, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” he says, turning and bending to grab the whipped cream from the mini-fridge. It’s too small to properly stick his head into, which has always been a sore point for Enjolras. He has to reach further into the fridge to get the whipped cream, and Grantaire clears his throat behind him.

He spares him a quick glance before popping into the back to get the ice cream from Eponine, but Grantaire won’t meet his eyes. He doesn’t know what happened to change the easy confidence Grantaire had before, but it makes something sink in Enjolras’ stomach. He’s obviously done something to make Grantaire uncomfortable, but he can’t for the life of him think of what it could be. Probably the whipped cream, he thinks, stepping into the freezer to escape. Eponine is bent in half over the ice cream freezer. She doesn’t move as he takes the cup from her hand and puts more whipped cream on it than Thenardier allows. Eponine had told him to do it for all customers, though, so he isn’t worried.

He steps back into the area behind the counter and is immediately hit with another wave of heat. Grantaire is on his phone, fingers flying, but he looks up when Enjolras puts the ice cream down.

“Is the whipped cream extra?” he asks, pulling his wallet out of his swim trunks.

Enjolras shakes his head quickly. “On the house.”

For a second Grantaire just stares at him, eyes searching. Then he’s taking the ice cream and dropping a five into the tip jar, and he’s out of the store before Enjolras can think to say thank you.

Eponine comes out of the freezer as he’s placing his head, very slowly, back onto the counter.

“Fuck,” she says, and for the first time, Enjolras understands completely.

* * *

He sees Grantaire a bunch of times over the next two weeks. He’s not sure if Grantaire lives at the beach, like he’s convinced the people in the weird van on the other side of the parking lot do, but his tan definitely seems to support it. He hasn’t talked much with him, mostly letting Cosette, Grantaire’s friend, and Eponine carry the conversations. He’s pretty sure Cosette is physically restraining herself from jumping Eponine at this point, and by the hearts in Eponine’s eyes, he’s pretty sure she’d let her. 

He’s working with Combeferre today, not Eponine. Enjolras had actually met Combeferre in one of his gen-ed courses last year, and they’d become inseparable. They had both applied here together. Combeferre is from Maine, and the hot California summers wear on him more than Enjolras. 

Combeferre is just stepping back behind the counter from his break when the bell rings. Enjolras has his back to the door, more than willing to pass this order off to Combeferre. His shift ends in ten minutes and he can feel his car’s air conditioning. He’s halfway into the freezer when a voice calls out.

“Enjolras!”

Enjolras turns, brow furrowed, and comes face-to-face with Grantaire.

Grantaire looks absolutely delighted.

“Enjolras,” he says again, and today he’s wearing a cut-off shirt and red lifeguard shorts. What is air? Enjolras doesn’t know. Grantaire’s smile dims a bit as Enjolras just continues to stare at him. He gestures to himself. “Grantaire, I come in a lot?”

Enjolras mentally shakes himself and finds a harried smile. “Hi, yeah, of course. What can I get for you?”

He can feel Combeferre giving him a look, one he studiously ignores.

“One sec,” Grantaire says, scanning the board. He’s not smiling.

“No rum raisin?”

Grantaire’s eyes snap back to him. Enjolras can feel prickly heat climbing up his neck. Grantaire orders rum raisin just about every time he’s in, so it’s not a huge leap, but he feels like he’s just admitted something.

Another second passes before Grantaire shakes his head, slowly. “I think I’ll try pineapple today.”

Enjolras nods wordlessly and grabs a small cup before he even thinks about it. He turns back. “Small?”

The smile breaks out again full force and Grantaire is laughing lightly and Enjolras cannot do this.

“Small would be great. With whipped cream, please.”

Enjolras hands the cup to Combeferre and bends to grab the whipped cream to hide his smile. Combeferre rolls his eyes as he heads into the back. 

Waiting for Combeferre feels like forever, especially with how Grantaire is just looking at him. He goes to wipe down the counter and remembers he’s still holding the whipped cream, so he stops and looks awkwardly back at Grantaire.

“How’s the beach?” Holy shit, what is he saying? 

“The beach is good,” Grantaire responds, eyes twinkling. “Still there. Lots of water, lots of sand.”

“That does sound like most beaches I’ve been to.” The counter is right there, he thinks. Grantaire might not care if he just brains himself to get out of this conversation.

But Grantaire smiles and rubs the back of his neck. Enjolras swallows. Grantaire has a swirling tattoo running down the underside of his arm and over his ribs “I guess it does.” 

Combeferre comes back then, and Enjolras thanks whatever god has been listening to this trainwreck. He pipes too much whipped cream on and hands the ice cream to Grantaire, and is about to head into the back when Grantaire speaks again.

“Hey, um…”

There’s an uncharacteristic hesitation in his voice, and he’s running a hand through his hair. “Is your shift over soon?”

Enjolras is thrown. “Yeah, in about ten minutes.”

“Cool, cool.” Grantaire is waiting again. Enjolras can’t figure out what it is that he should be saying. Combeferre is watching them both with rapt attention and looks halfway to popping a bag of popcorn. But Grantaire isn’t asking him out. Enjolras isn’t kidding himself, and he knows that Grantaire (broad, muscled, tan Grantaire) probably isn’t into the whole tall and skinny and pale vibe that says he spends even his summer hours in the library. So he has absolutely no clue what this is.

When this becomes clear to Grantaire, after a good few seconds, Grantaire seems to make up his mind about something.

“Would you wanna walk down to the beach with me?”

Enjolras blinks once. Then again.

“I mean, I just, I saw your necklace,” Grantaire says, rushed. “I thought maybe you could help me find some shells to make something like it.”

Oh. That makes sense. Much more sense than a date. Enjolras touches his shell necklace and nods. “Yeah, sure, once I’m off the clock I can-”

Combeferre rushes forwards to slap his palms on the counter. “I can cover your last ten minutes, no problem.” He waves vaguely at Enjolras. “I’ll sign you out, you just go look for some shells.”

Enjolras frowns but nods again. He’ll have to make it very clear to Combeferre that this isn’t a date, or anything. Grantaire is obviously just very friendly, and wants to hang out and make a cool necklace. That’s it.

He hangs up his apron, brushes down his striped shirt, and grabs his car keys. He looks once more at Combeferre, trying to telepathically shout ‘this is not a date,’ and then walks out the door in front of Grantaire. 

The sun hasn’t quite begun to set, but it’s in that stage right before it where the sky seems to be shrinking even in the full light. Enjolras stuffs his hands into his pockets just for something to do with them and walks down to the water with Grantaire.

Grantaire eating his ice cream is distracting. It shouldn’t be, because this is not a date.

They make it down to the shore without incident, even though Enjolras had been convinced he would trip and sprawl headfirst into the sand and ruin any chance of Grantaire talking to him again. He immediately starts his search for shells, poking around the rocks with single-minded focus. Grantaire had wanted a necklace, and he was going to get the best one Enjolras could make.

He has four clutched between his fingers before he wonders at what type Grantaire will like best. When he looks up Grantaire is already watching him, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Enjolras holds up the shells. “Do you have any preference?”

Grantaire chuckles. “No, not really, I like that…” he gestures at Enjolras. “That blue striped one.”

Enjolras hums and gets back to searching. 

They spend the next twenty minutes searching, and Grantaire nods in approval at every shell Enjolras holds up. By the time they’re done he has enough to make five necklaces for Grantaire, who looks even taller outside the store. He clenches the shells tighter and then stuffs them his pockets.

He clears his throat. “Well, I think. I mean. That’s enough shells. For a necklace.”

Grantaire nods. “Sounds good, then.” He only has a few shells in the bottom of his now-empty cup, and Enjolras wonders what he’s been doing this whole time.

Grantaire walks him to his car. Not a date, Enjolras reminds himself firmly. He’s just very skinny, and there could be people here who want to mug him and steal his...shells, as that’s the only thing he has on him, so Grantaire is just protecting his necklace. He eyes the middle schoolers that run by them in the parking lot suspiciously, potential muggers that they are. Not a date, not a date, he repeats in a mantra when Grantaire leans and rests against the door of Enjolras' car. His eyes are very green even in the waning light. 

“I expect the most beautiful necklace in the country,” Grantaire says, very serious.

Enjolras nods back solemnly. “Of course. You should expect nothing less.” Not a date, not a date. It was twenty minutes, for god’s sake.

Grantaire gives him that bright smile, taps the door, and walks away. 

When Enjolras gets home that night, he spends two hours very carefully tying the knots in the twine, boring tiny holes in the shells, and stringing Grantaire’s necklace together.

Grantaire’s smile the next afternoon is worth it. Eponine pretends to gag. Cosette giggles at her.

* * *

Enjolras is good with words. Very good. Good at speaking them, writing them, remembering them, whatever. He’s turned it into his major, doubling in linguistics and international relations, and he is very proud of how it makes his parents’ eyes twitch. His math teachers had despaired of getting him to understand anything beyond basic algebra, and he had made it his life’s mission to do exactly no more math than it took him to get through life. Words, though, he gets.

That’s what makes this situation with Grantaire so strange. Enjolras has been attracted to people before and remained entirely capable of carrying on long, winding discussions with them. He had liked Feuilly, one of Combeferre’s friends, for an entire six months after he had called Enjolras on a flaw in his paper on health infrastructure in the Middle East. But Feuilly, and all the other people he’s liked, had all talked like him. Big words, strung together in big sentences, full of eloquence and style and persuasiveness. Enjolras has perfected the art of convincing people, and has let himself be convinced. But Grantaire doesn’t speak like that.

Grantaire’s words aren’t designed to persuade. They land like physical weights, battering down anything Enjolras might think to say. He throws out ideas off the cuff that have so much depth and thought that Enjolras’ tongue gets tied. He’s spent so long honing his ability to show his feelings with words, and Grantaire does it with ease. On one memorable day, he had described the way it felt to ride a wave in such beautiful simplicity that Enjolras had had to escape to the freezer to take a few deep breaths. With Grantaire, he’s aware of how thin his words can be if they’re looked at too closely, and it makes him afraid. He doesn’t think Grantaire would be impressed with what he has to say.

* * *

It’s another sweltering day, two weeks after his not date with Grantaire, and both he and Combeferre are taking a break in the freezer. When there’s a lull, like now, Combeferre will take a few seconds to step in the back and rest. ‘I fricking miss snow,’ he always complains.

Enjolras is leaning against the cotton candy freezer, running his hands through his hair to fix the way it hangs limply over his forehead, when the bell rings. Combeferre groans and Enjolras laughs. He looks about dead on his feet, cheeks flushed, and so Enjolras pushes himself to his feet with a deep sigh.

“I’ve got it,” he says, brushing his hair back down as he goes into the main store. He can feel Combeferre behind him, though, which makes him huff a laugh. The only thing more stubborn than Combeferre is the sun, and Enjolras doesn’t have a hope of convincing either of them to just cool down for a bit.

He pushes open the door, hurriedly tying his apron behind his back, and asks, “What can I get you?”

There’s a pause, and then he’s looking at Grantaire. 

His breath leaves him in a rush. No shirt no service, he wants to say, but he doesn’t because wow. He should be used to this by now. Grantaire comes in almost every day. He might as well take down that sign.

Grantaire is with two people this time, Cosette and a new guy with hair curlier than Grantaire’s. Cosette is looking around, clearly for Eponine, but Grantaire is staring straight at Enjolras. He’s frowning, first at Enjolras, and then at Combeferre, who has stumbled out after him. 

He asks for coconut without looking at Enjolras once, hands over perfect change, and is gone as soon as Enjolras returns with it.

Enjolras blinks, almost unsure if he really saw Grantaire at all, before his attention is drawn to Combeferre. He’s talking with the third person, the one Enjolras doesn’t know, like an old friend. He steps over to help, and the new guy looks almost manic with glee.

“You’re Enjolras, right?” He puts out his hand. “I’m Courfeyrac, ‘Ferre and I had chemistry together. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Enjolras is not sure why Combeferre would have mentioned him more than in passing, if that, to this new person, but he doesn’t question it.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, and is already shaking before he remembers to wipe his hand. Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah, same.” He leans forward. “So, we’re having a bonfire tonight. You two wanna come?”

Enjolras looks at Combeferre, who is looking at Courfeyrac intently. Enjolras thinks his face is even more flushed, probably from the heat.

Combeferre nods. “Yeah, sure.” He whacks Enjolras’ arm. “We’d love to!”

Enjolras smiles tightly. He’d been planning on watching Criminal Minds until he passed out on his couch, but he can’t leave Combeferre alone. Besides, he thinks. Maybe he’ll get to see Grantaire.

* * *

He does not see Grantaire. Well, alright, he sees him, but it’s always across the bonfire or walking away or in the middle of a conversation with somebody else. It stings a little, because he knows that Grantaire is purposefully avoiding him. They’d locked eyes earlier, when Enjolras and Combeferre had shown up, but then Grantiare had looked away and marched over to yell at Courfeyrac about something.

So now he’s sitting in the sand, just close enough to the ocean to have the edge of the tide wash over his toes. He wraps his arms around his knees. The party behind him is in full swing, full of people he doesn’t know but would probably enjoy talking to if he weren’t so miserable. Eponine had shown up after they got there, even though she hadn’t been working. Cosette had walked straight up to her and kissed her on the lips, and Enjolras had smiled at the way everyone cheered. They weren’t the only couple, either: Courfeyrac and Combeferre had been joined at the hip all night. He’d been able to take the hint after a while, and he’s happy for them, really, but the way Grantaire made it a point to be at least fifty feet from him at all times has put him in a mood.

He hears footsteps crunching in the sand behind him. Probably Combeferre, he thinks, because he’s an amazing friend.

That’s why he startles when Grantaire sits down beside him, for the first time in his memory wearing a sweatshirt with both sleeves.

“Hey,” Grantaire says. Enjolras tries to be mad, he does, but he’s mostly just confused. And hurt. Definitely hurt.

“Hi,” he mumbles back, and hugs his knees closer. The tide just touches the tips of his toes now, and he tries to push down the rising tears. It’s stupid, he knows it is. He’s only known Grantaire for a month, it shouldn’t matter that he suddenly hates Enjolras.

For a few minutes, the only sound is the waves gently lapping against the shore and the distant noise of the party behind them. Enjolras wipes at his nose. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Sorry about Combeferre.”

That is. What? 

“What?”

Grantaire blows out a breath. Enjolras can’t help looking at him, but Grantaire is staring determinedly into the dark ocean.

“Sorry about, you know. Combeferre and Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras cannot figure out what he means. “I’m not upset with them?”

Grantaire looks at him, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not,” he protests, because what does Grantaire think, he wants Combeferre to be miserable just so he’ll have company? “I’m happy for them, I think they’re good together.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “You’re a better person than me, then.”

“Why, because I don’t want my friend to be miserable?”

Grantaire blinks. “Um.”

The words tumble out of him, and he’s powerless to stop them. Curse his public speaking skills. “I wanted to hang out with you tonight, and you’ve been avoiding me.” He talks over Grantaire’s protest. “No, you have, and I don’t know why. I didn’t know anybody else except Combeferre, and he wanted to spend time with Courfeyrac, so you left me all alone to sit in front of the fire like an idiot.” His voice catches. “What did I do?”

Grantaire moves like he’s going to reach for him but stops before his hand touches. “Enjolras,” he says, and his voice is rough. “You didn’t do anything. But, Combeferre and you, and you know what I feel about you-”

“Anger? Dislike? Sudden and inconquerable disgust-”

“I like you.”

Enjolras stops. Thinks. It doesn’t compute. “Then why-”

“Because I wasn’t going to ruin your relationship with Combeferre,” Grantaire says, quiet but steady. “I’m not like that.”

“Why would you have ruined my relationship with Combeferre? He doesn’t control who I’m friends with, frankly, and I-”

“Jesus Christ,” Grantaire mutters. Then, louder, “I like you, as in, I want to date you, Enjolras. And I can’t.”

Enjolras stops again. This time he kind of understands, except what? “Why not? Why would Combeferre have a problem with that?”

Grantaire looks at him like he’s just run screaming like a loon into the ocean. “Because...you’re together? Or were, sorry, I mean, that’s why I wanted to see if you were alright-”

“Combeferre and I aren’t together.” Things are starting to fall into place, and he can feel a smile starting to tug at his lips. Grantaire doesn’t care that he’s skinny, or that he can get sunburned at night. “We never were, we’re just friends. Why…”

“Today,” Grantaire says, looking at him with wide eyes. “When you came out from the back together, and you were…”

Enjolras remembers Combeferre’s groan at having to move, both of their flushed cheeks, retying his apron, and a laugh bubbles out of him. Grantaire is giving him that look again, like he’s crazy, but there’s something like hope suffusing his face. 

“We’re not together,” he repeats. “It just gets so hot in the store, and we don’t have AC, and god I like you so much too, how did you not-”

Grantaire leans over and cuts him off with a kiss. When he pulls back he’s grinning, the far-away bonfire throwing faint light onto the side of his face, his eyes boring into Enjolras’. He looks. Enjolras shivers. He looks beautiful.

“Go out with me,” he says, taking one of Enjolras’ hands. 

“Well,” Enjolras says. “How do I know you don’t just want me for my ice cream? And my necklace making skills? Because let me tell you, I do not appreciate being used.”

Grantaire smiles and kisses him again. Enjolras closes his eyes and kisses him back.

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire mumbles against his lips. “That’s only fifty percent of the reason.” He leans back but places a hand on Enjolras’ cheek, sand rough against his skin. “But does this mean I get free samples?”

Enjolras smiles. “I’ll think about it.”


End file.
